Words from a Bird

I may never go back to Bournemouth again.  It's not because I don't like the town, because I do.  It's beautiful, and the beach is stunning.  No, it's more for the reason that every bar between West Cliff and the gardens has my photo under their counter with 'BARRED' stamped across it in red.   It all started rather quietly on Saturday morning.  I surprised Miss R, The Mother and Mrs Jangles at Maidenhead station.  They had been expecting me at Reading but I thought I'd creep up on them on the platform and check out how many bags of tat they were carrying.  Well it didn't look too bad as I approached them, just a helium balloon screaming 'Bride Tribe' tied to a suitcase and a fairly innocent looking white carrier bag.   Once settled on the train, Miss R pulled out the white carrier, and said, 'Now let's see what we have in here'.  Well ladies, you all saw the state I was in on the train, with veil, glasses, badge and hairband

The countdown has started for the 'hen weekend' planned by daughters one and two.   I have to confess to being slightly nervous as to what surprises they may have in store for me, especially after the husband muttered 'Naked butler' under his breath last night.  He later admitted that he was winding me up, but still, if some bloke turns up at the bar with cocktails and a small pinny, I shall be telling him to 'buttle off' in no uncertain terms.   Having been the recipient of a stripper when I left a car sales job many moons (excuse the pun) ago, I spent my final afternoon at the garage locked up in the manager's office while a bloke in beige cords pleaded with me to open the door so that he could fulfill the booking.  'It's all been paid for, you might as well let me take me keks off', were his words if I remember rightly. So no strippers please.  I also put the kibosh on any sort of sash, cheap veil and L-plates (I'm that old th

I hate to complain about this weather.  Let's face it, in this country we are treated to around 9.35 days of unbroken sunshine each year with the other 355.65 days being a mixture of fifty shades of grey and a smattering of snow which brings the whole country to a shuddering halt. So no, I'm not going to complain about the heat. Let's concentrate on the positives, shall we,  For a start, we all go a little bit slower, plodding from home to work and back again trying to avoid any sudden moments or anything faster than a snail's pace.  This mean that we have time to talk to people a bit more(I managed to talk about the weather with at least four complete strangers on the way to the optician yesterday). And then there's air conditioning.  I don't know about you, but I have been picking my shops very carefully this week, skipping between Costa (so cold normally that an extra layer is needed between the front door and the till), the optician (I managed t

'You look lovely and sun-kissed', said my colleague Mrs T as we bumped into each other over the kettle at Binland this morning. Sun-kissed?   More like sun-slapped with a wet haddock wielded by Mike Tyson. Yesterday, I fell victim to some stealth sunburn courtesy of the Woolacombe sun.  I have to admit that a pint of cider might just have contributed to this, but as I dropped off to sleep on a hazy Sunday afternoon, little did I know that the next morning I'd look like someone who'd gone shopping and forgotten to put their trousers on.  Red faced and slightly tight around the eyes, I looked like I'd had a week in Benidorm rather than four nights in the Wobble Box.   We'd had a pretty full on weekend of carousing and stuffing our faces with anything that stopped moving long enough, all in the company of my cousin Mrs B and her gorgeous family.  She has the pleasure of living in Devon all year round, although looking at the queues on the A361 this mor

The last traces of glitter (never, ever will I wear glitter nail varnish again) are slowly disappearing, and my henna tattoo (beautiful flower on Saturday, old lady sun spots by Wednesday) is also almost gone.  I still have the blister on my right heel and a slight ringing in my right ear after standing next to the speaker while Mr Brightside was being belted out, but all in all, I think it's safe to say that I survived Catfest19. I still feel that a week's sleep would benefit me no end, but as a few days away in the Wobble Box is on the cards (Woolacombe this time) I think that opportunities for a few zeds will be few and far between.  The husband (or Team Leader as he likes to be known on these forays into the wilderness) is planning walks a plenty.  The site we are on is on the top of the hill, so whichever way we walk, there is going to be one hell of an incline to conquer to get home.   Last night, as the husband and I were watching the last episode of Dark Money

Well ladies, I have almost managed to de-glitter myself after the weekend's events... As you know, I was at a festival this weekend as a guest of Jolly Sock Man's parents.  Because the husband had received a better offer involving three mates, a tent and several large motorbikes, this left me free to invite best friend Mrs S as my 'plus one'.  You can imagine our utter joy when a missive arrived in my Inbox advising that Abba clothing was de rigeur as one of the bands at the festival was a tribute to the Swedish songsters.   Rifling through my dressing up room (you might call it an airing cupboard, but since the kids departed, it's had a bit of a makeover) I failed to find anything vaguely Abbaresque, so I hit the internet, and purchased a rather fetching silver two piece which was perfect.  Mrs S naturally had something in her cupboard.  A Super Trooper poncho and a pair of modified drawers which just about covered her modesty coupled with long white boots. M

Big news....I am writing this without the use of glasses.  This after a visit to the opticians this afternoon with me bleating about how I didn't recognise Bradley Walsh on the television last week and how the husband didn't seem to be aging at the rate I was.  The optician was a lovely chap, and after forty minutes of peering at red and green blobs, letters, circles and the inside of his left nostril (they do get up close and very personal with little warning) he came to the decision that I was needing something slightly more robust than the reading glasses I've been clinging on to for the past seven years or so. Seeing I was a bit crestfallen, he tried to cheer me up by waving what I thought was a selfie stick under my nose.  'You see this stick?' he asked, pointing at it. 'Well no, not really', I said.  This was the cue for the clown glasses to be popped back on my nose again.  'Can you see it now?'  Yes I could. 'Yes', what's it for

Last weekend seems like a distant memory now.  Two days of floating around in floaty 'girl clothes' being ladylike and charming to all and sundry (including an over amorous Elvis).  This coming weekend couldn't be further from this... You see, I've been invited to Jolly Sock Man's parents' house for a mini festival on Saturday.  Daughters one and two have frequented this the last three years or so, and from what little information I have been able to glean, it could be quite a boozy affair.  The reason that they haven't been able to divulge much is that the pair of them launched themselves into it so fully, that neither of them can remember a thing, other than 'the food was great' and 'there was just so much drink'.  Explains everything I suppose. But I have asked Jolly Sock Man's parents all the right questions, so I now am in possession of the following information. It starts at 1.00.  Mmm...day time drinking which means I&

There's nothing better than floating down the river on a sunny Regatta afternoon while a middle aged Elvis impersonator belts out the King's hits.  Let me set the scene.  A two level boat which has seen better days, filled to the brim with ladies and gentlemen (some of which also fall into the 'seen better days' camp).   There was alcohol of course.  Let's face it, once you get past sixty or so, red wine takes on the same category as a glass of milk or lemon barley, and boy, was it flowing.  So by the time Elvis hit the upper deck (where I was sitting enjoying the swans and geese on the river) the crowd were fully fired up and ready for anything. Now I have seen this Elvis on many, many occasions and every time I forget just how rude he is.  As he walked up the stairs, I realised to my horror that I was sitting completely at the front with nowhere to hide.  I was the subject of some banter regarding fake tan and some rather lewd jokes headed my way too.

Every year I say the same thing...that one year, Henley Regatta will be the death of me.  You'll be pleased to hear that it wasn't this year (well so far, still got tomorrow afternoon to get through, and as that involves a boat and the wet stuff, anything could happen).  But it was close... The trouble is that we always have some/all of the children with us, and they are very good at leading me astray.  Daughter number one and Little Miss Tiny were most generous with the Aperol Spritz (my new drink of choice) and my the time our friends collected us to go to Henley, I was well on the way.  I had a very wide hat on, as befitting Regatta, and worked out pretty quickly that I couldn't go through a standard doorway face on (I managed to wipe out Little Miss Tiny on the way to the front door) so the rest of the afternoon was spent listing slightly to one side to get the hat through various doors without having a head on collision with all the other hats on parade.  

What is the correct etiquette where a mobile phone call is concerned?  This morning, I was desperately trying to get hold of my sister, Miss R.  (Very important phone call to find out what she's wearing to Henley Regatta tomorrow). So she answered the phone, we spoke for about three and a half seconds before she said in a frustrated voice, 'No.  You've gone all fuzzy'.  Cutting the call, I then pressed redial to call her back.  In my mind, I had made the original contact, so it was my responsibility to try again. It was engaged.  Three times. So while I was under the impression that the person who made the call should be the one who keeps trying to connect, it would appear that Miss R operated under a completely different agenda, ie that I made the first call, so now it's her turn to call me.  To be honest with you, taking this and the fact that I seem to live somewhere with the mobile network of Mars, I am surprised that we ever manage to talk. And

What is it that they say about when 'the cat's away'?  Well in my case, it's 'When the cat's way the old bird in charge of the house goes shopping for all sorts of stuff which she didn't even know she needed'. The husband was away last night you see, and having walked the woofers (twice), done all the washing and clearing up, and done a stint at Binland, I really had nothing left to do except look for a pair of shoes to go with my dress for the renewal of vows in August.  It took me almost three weeks to get all four girls sorted with dresses, but surprisingly, I was slightly easier, and my dress arrived yesterday after a short discussion with my lovely friend who runs this fabulous vintage shop near me.  Take a look at what she does on Facebook ( www.facebook.com/emmasvintagestyle/ ) and you'll get an idea of what I have planned for the Graceland Memorial Chapel on the 7th August.  It's frills all round ladies. So with my dress bought,